There is No Word For 'Please'
by OnWithTheButter
Summary: A certain African island girl has made it her mission to get to know a certain European island boy. IceSey
1. Chapter 1

_August 1994_

Seychelles doesn't really stand out, not to say there's nothing special about the country. Michelle, a young African girl with a medium brown skin tone and dark brown hair and eyes, also know as Seychelles, was the same. As the personification and representative of her nation, she did her duties well, though almost no one bothered to notice. An optimistic, up-beat girl, she never let the lack of attention consume her. After all, it was a mostly peaceful life for her, surrounded by the sea and so many beautiful, untouched treasures of nature. The more well-known nations had troubles along with their fame, were blamed continuously, on and on. Everyone knew them.

Then there were all the others. Some were small, some were on the line between so-poor-that-everyone-fussed-over-them and just-poor-enough-to-suffer-while-the-rest-of-the-world-glanced-over. Some were just plain new, either young or only recently coming out from under foreign control. These were, like Seychelles, the unknowns, they were there, but almost no one knew them.

Then there was _him_. Michelle didn't know him, his name, or even what country he was. She had guessed he was European by his ash-pale skin and white-blond hair, and by the fact that he only seemed to interact with those she knew were European. Then again, he could easily be from the Americas, a former European colony perhaps? Because of her unknown status, Michelle had usually dozed off during world conferences, no one cared about her opinion, so she never bothered. She knew a fair bit of the other African nations and a few of the Asians, but France and England were the only Europeans she could claim to know. Sure, she could point out that that man was Russia, or that one was Germany, that was Greece, but _know_ them? Not a bit. There were plenty she didn't even know the names of, or where to locate their countries on a map.

There was something strange about this one though. He had a nearly eerie atmosphere to his person, almost other-worldly or alien, and it was a magnetic force. Over a course of several years, she had noticed much about him, yet learned little to nothing. From the way he chose to sit, concealing himself from at least half of the table's sight by leaning back behind his taller seatmates, to the way he seemed not to care about the majority of the discussions, preferring to doodle or doze. She had seen nearly violent arguments break out between him and England, at least once a year, but she could never tell what they were about. The fights were rather amusing really, with the short, thick-browed Englishman getting in the mystery boy's face, the probably two or three inches of difference in their height made exaggerated by England's tendency to crouch and the other's to standing on the toes of his already slightly high-heeled boots.

One endearing aspect to the boy was his voice, when he did speak. It was accented in such a way that made him sound harsh, and it was obvious how he tried to compensate for it. She couldn't pick out the accent. It was definitely not French, and it wasn't English either, though at times it sounded close to something Celtic. Under the accent, he had a monotone voice that perfectly matched his expressionless face, still slightly boyish sounding though he appeared to be older than her, physically at least. With nations, one could never tell their age by looking at them. He was almost like watching a robot, she had never seen him smile, never brighten, never laugh, never react to anything. She had only seen him frown, and only two or three times, ever. She liked to believe he wasn't unhappy, that he only had an intense dislike for these international affairs. In fact, in her mind, she had created a whole persona on what she thought he might be like.

In her mind, he was a passive young man, a former colony of England's who broke away, much like South Africa, but without the hatred and violence. She imagined him to be a blood relative to the two blonds he always seemed to talk with the most. Having no idea of her own blood family — maybe she just didn't have one anymore — she liked to think that he had one, and they were the perfect happy family. Sure, he would push those two away from him, but he was a teenager, right? Most teens are trying to be on their own, thinking they don't need their family anymore. At least, that's what Michelle observed from humans.

He had to have friends too, right? He waved at some other sometimes. America was one who would come over to talk to him before or after meetings occasionally. Then again, America was very out-going, he probably knew everyone. There were three that must have been former Soviet nations as they only began to appear when the USSR collapsed a few years ago, and they greeted the unknown boy every time without fail.

Yet again, the boy was at the conference early, doodling on straight-facedly on lined paper. She almost walked around to say hello to him, but the long hand on the large clock on the wall looming dangerously close to tolling the hour was enough justification for her shyness. Instead, she sat down in the chair marked for her, a perfect vantage point for continuing to watch. He leaned over to show whatever he had done to the man beside him, who barely smiled, shaking his head. Taking back the paper, the younger appeared to scribble something else on it, then fold it into an airplane, tossing the plane almost directly into a certain tousle-headed Brit's face. England quickly opened the paper, then rolled his eyes and made a sign at the platinum blond that said 'I'm watching you', to which he shrugged and started fiddling with the ends of the ribbon around his neck. Still, no reaction of emotion.

Part-way into the meeting, Michelle excused herself for a personal break. As she walked by, she discreetly picked up the discarded paper, curious as to what exactly it was. Once safely out of the room, she opened it to reveal a caricature drawing of England being poked lightly by the young man. The captions and dialogue were in two languages, the English looking like a hurried translation. The original language she had never seen before and couldn't begin to guess it, noting it mixed strange letters with the Latin alphabet and had accent marks not unlike French. The handwriting itself was angular and straight, yet somehow elegant, like a penman's. The picture was mocking England for running at a small threat, calling him out for being cowardly and weak, something Seychelles had a hard time imagining how one could see her former ruler that way. In the upper-left corner was a blue rectangle with white and red bars crossed over it, identical to the flag that identified him on the plaque on the table in front of his seat, beside the name she could never read from her distance.

Not long after she returned from her break, a recess was called as some parties involved began to lose their tempers, as was typical at these events. After considering shortly, she snatched up a piece of paper from the dark-skinned, sleeping girl beside her, scribbling down a query, folding and tossing the paper at the boy. It skidded across half of the table, coming to a stop between him and the man beside him. The younger slapped away his seatmate's hand, opening the paper, addressed only to his flag.

"_Who are you? –Seychelles_"

He quickly wrote back, in that same rune-like handwriting. "_Lýðveldið Ísland_" and shot the plane back, narrowly missing her face.

"_Pardon, en français ou anglais s'il vous plaît._"

She watched closely to see how he reacted to the French, but he mindlessly wrote back. "_Franska? Nei, íslenska eða skandinavíska, takk._" Then a line below it, "_I'm Iceland._"

"_Nice to meet you, Iceland._"

The blond with the spiky hair two chairs down grabbed the paper – Michelle's aim wasn't so great — and scribbled his own additions before flying it back to the African girl. "_Island thinks you're pretty._" He added a winking face and a secondary note, "_And so does Danmark._"

She blushed lightly, not that it was really noticeable against her dark skin, and tapped her pen against her chin, thinking of an appropriate response. She was cut short, however, by the meeting being called back to order.

* * *

Seychelles awoke with a start, something seemed strange. She wasn't at home, she was still at that conference, and the room was nearly empty, save for a few still chatting amongst themselves. Her shoulder felt cold…actually, it was almost like she could feel this…presence. Ghosts? This was just some bad nightmare, right? She wasn't really stuck alone with something weird, right?

"Are you awake? Uh… Seychelles?" The voice, mispronouncing her name, sounded like he had been asking repeatedly. Wait…that accent.

She quickly turned around to be face-to-face with this Iceland. Her first close look at him, she noticed more than she could from across the room. He was very thin and taller than she thought, several freckles splayed across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, and his eyes were a red-violet color. He sat down in the chair beside her. She quickly put on her cheeriest smile and gently corrected him, "It's Seychelles," holding out a hand for a proper introduction.

He shook her hand almost too gently, the first thing she noticed was the frigid temperature of his hand. _Ice_land, huh? "I'm sorry, Seychelles," were his quiet words, this time with the correct pronunciation. "That was French you wrote in, right?"

"Oui," she grinned. "How did you know?"

"The 'français' and 's'il vous plaît' gave it away. It said basically 'French or English please', right?"

"You speak French?"

"No, I just…I can recognize it. The French language is famous and world-wide after all."

"Then what did yours say?"

"'Franska? Nei, íslenska eða skandinavíska, takk.' It translates to 'French? No, Icelandic or Scandinavian, thanks.'"

"'Thanks'?" she held back a laugh.

"There is no word for 'please'," he answered very matter-of-factly.

"You're kidding."

He shook his head. "The closest we have is stupid and no one uses it anyway. Takk, or thanks, is an easy way to be polite."

She nodded awkwardly. This boy was a mystery indeed, and that strange air around him was discomforting for a stranger like her. "So tell me more about yourself."

"Like what?"

"Like…for example, I'm the Republic of Seychelles, my country is a bunch of islands in the Indian Ocean, east of Africa and north of Madagascar. The official languages are French, English and Seychellois Creole. I was a French colony, then an English colony, before I got my independence in 1976. Basic stuff."

"Oh." Copying her format exactly, he explained, "I'm the Republic of Iceland, my country is a volcanic island in the north Atlantic, just south of the polar circle. The official language is Icelandic. The island was discovered and settled in the ninth century, invented the first modern parliament in the tenth, and became a Norwegian territory in the thirteenth. Long and confusing story short, pretty much ended up a tributary to Denmark for a long time until I got my independence in 1944."

"In the middle of World War II?"

"The occupation of Denmark was probably the only way I could have got free. Centuries of trying and it took the biggest war ever to finally get out."

"So is it cold there?" She shivered slightly, remembering his handshake. "I live near the equator, so it's almost always summer."

"The island is covered in glaciers, what do you think? No, it's really not cold. Geothermal heat and the North Atlantic Drift warm up the southern coast a lot, which is where most people live. It's colder in New York. It's beautiful, really."

Just then, a head of wild, blond hair appeared through the doorway. "Hej, Isbjerg! Wanna go drinking with us or not?"

Iceland put his hands on his knees in preparation to stand up, offering a quick explanation and apology to the girl. "Denmark. I promised to go with him and Norway. See you."

As he stood up, she put a hand on his arm, lightly touching her cheek to his in a near-kiss that she had learned from France. She wasn't surprised to find his facial skin to be every bit as cold, though it warmed and reddened at her action. It was then she realized that not all Europeans were the same… Putting a hand over her mouth, she apologized to the frozen and staring young man. "I…I'm sorry, I was taught…to do…that."

He shook his head and looked at the floor. "Eh… It's okay." And then he disappeared.

Sure, he wasn't what she expected, but he wasn't entire unpleasant either…

* * *

**A/N: Just a oneshot for now~ If someone wants, I can write a second chapter that's more romancey ^w^**

**I hope you enjoyed and please review~**

* * *

**Notes that I forgot to add because I posted in a hurry:  
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**The drawing is a mockery of the Cod Wars, and based on my observations on Icelanders feelings about it.  
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**The reference to South Africa is because I'm South African and while I don't have a SA OC, I have an idea on what s/he should be like.  
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**Lýðveldið Ísland - The Republic of Iceland (Icelandic)**

**Pardon, en français ou anglais s'il vous plaît. - Sorry, in French or English please. (French)**

**Island - Iceland (Danish)  
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**Danmark - Denmark (Danish)  
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**Hej, Isbjerg! - Hey, Iceberg! (Danish (originally I failed this one, thinking it was the same as Swedish and Norwegian lololol, but I corrected it))  
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	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Second, fluffy, romancey chapter as requested by ChancellorPuddinghead and Azugirl888~**

* * *

_August 2004_

A certain African girl sat with her legs rested over a platinum blond's lap, her body curled up slightly and draped with his old, brown jacket, her head leaning against his chest. On the cliffs overlooking the vast ocean, the wind blew sharp, and even though this was summer in Iceland, she was somewhat cold. The young man had his sleeves rolled up, this was warm to him, despite the wind.

"Hey Egil," she spoke, he lips curling into a smile, "remember when we first met?"

He answered without opening his eyes. "Ten years ago, in London, at the UN summit. You stared at me the whole time." Then with an expression only those close to him could recognize as a smile, he added, "How could I forget?"

She giggled. "How did you know that I, out of hundreds of nations, did that? And you looked like you were sleeping the whole time."

"I have my ways. You also stared at me the…five conferences before."

"Do you have a sixth sense or something?"

"Maybe. Or maybe I'm magical. Or those are one and the same."

"Believe me, you're very magical," she hummed before sitting up and placing a kiss on the end of his thin nose.

Wordlessly, he took down one of the ribbons in her dark hair and softly began to braid it.

She was slowly getting used to his strange and quiet forms of affection. He wasn't very open or touchy-feely like France, not was he harsh or unreadable like England. When Iceland spoke, he spoke only for a reason, and though he would act cold, his actions were what spoke for him. He guarded his thoughts and emotions, so when he spoke of them, she was sure he meant them.

"What do you think would happen is people learned about…us?" she wondered aloud.

"I think my brother would first have a meltdown, then…have another meltdown because I didn't tell him, and then you'd have to watch yourself very carefully because he's overprotective and stronger than he looks."

"Ah, negatives 1, 2, and 3. I know François would be enthralled with the sole idea of l'amour for me, but he'd also have his nose in our privacy."

"Negative 4."

"And positive 1, yes?"

"I guess."

"Any other positives, for fairness' sake?"

"Dan'd probably be like France, but more immature about it and less invasive. And he'd be protective, not just of me, but of my happiness and by association, you. That counts, I think."

"I don't think England really cares, but he doesn't like you, so…"

"Who has to know, really? We're both old enough to take care of ourselves." He smiled again as he tied a bow back in the red ribbon at the end of the braid, before shifting her gently and beginning on the other side of her head.

"No one else knows."

"He knows." He pointed at the small black and white bird with a red bow who had just come back up from the water with fish in his beak.

"He doesn't count," she giggled.

Their love story had developed slowly over the course of a decade. At first, casual acquaintances who spoke a few times a year, they soon found themselves keeping in touch more and more. Feelings developed without either really noticing until they were obvious.

* * *

_December 2003, Oslo_

_He wanted to surprise her by meeting her at the airport. No really, he just wanted to see her. She had volunteered the information of her flight to him anyway, and he was there first after flying in from Keflavík anyway. Nervously, he paced near the gates, sat down on one of the benches, got up again to look at the flight board. No delays so far. In a way, he wanted it to be delayed, just so he had more time to compose himself, but no, he wanted to see her _now_._

_After another half hour of the same routine, the airplane touched down. He knew that it'd still be a wait for everyone to get off, but he couldn't keep his eyes off of the gates. Soon, very soon, she would have to come out._

_He spotted the red ribbons and bouncy gait immediately. She was kind of crouched over, arms folded like she was cold, with just a sweater for warmth. She certainly didn't see him as she was looking at the ground, in as much of a hurry as she could be in the crowd._

_"Michelle!" he called, she was poised to walk right by him. "Michelle, over here!"_

_She looked up, scanning the faces for who called. When she saw him, she did a double-take, stopping firm in her tracks and walking toward him. "You didn't say you'd be here, Egil…"_

_She was definitely shivering. Who comes to Norway in winter with just a sweater when said person hails from Africa? "Are you cold?" Without waiting for a response, he took his own jacket and sweater off, holding them out to her as he averted his eyes, his face turning red._

_"I…" she blinked up at him, looking away herself as she reluctantly accepted the clothing. "Won't you be cold?"_

_The corners of his mouth twitched up slightly. "I'm from Iceland, this is nothing. You can borrow those for now, and I'll buy you something warmer as soon as we get outside…"_

_"You…you don't have to…"_

_"I want to." He turned to walk away in a hurry, all the nerves he had spent days working up quickly vanishing. "Come on."_

_There wasn't much time wasted in the airport, and the duo were soon outside, with the wind and lack of heating only proving the point he never made about her freezing to death before they got to the conference. There was time however, and he pulled her aside into a clothing store for something warm of her own._

_"Get whatever you like," was his simple instruction._

_She didn't take long to pick out something, she was a simple girl after all. After he had paid and the two were headed back out, she stopped him with a hand to his elbow. "Egil… I… Thank you."_

_"No, I wanted to." He briefly looked her in the eyes, then dropped his gaze, the blush coming straight back._

_"Really, thank you. You didn't have to stop and wait for me, and I would have been stuck alone in the cold."_

_He could only watch her mouth move as she spoke, unable to bring his eyes back up. Only one thing was in his mind at that moment, how amazingly beautiful she had become in the months since he saw her last, though he could remember thinking it briefly before. Now, the thought controlled him. He managed to mumble out, "Forgive me…" before planting his lips on hers in a brief kiss. He pulled away quickly, taking her hand in his, and purposefully looking anywhere but at her._

_"Ah…" Michelle was stunned, wanting to respond to his sudden burst of emotion, but having no words._

_"I…" he started, his expression quivering. "Ég elska þig."_

_"What?"_

_"I love you."_

* * *

"Yo, lovepunks!" the puffin called back to the two. "Quit goofin' off and make out already!" The look Egil shot at him did little to shut him up. "Or at least get serious about your relationship! I ain't gettin' any younger and I wanna be an Uncle Puffin, if ya know what I mean…"

"Shut up."

Michelle giggled, more at her boyfriend's reaction than the bird. "Mr. Puffin, you'd be so much cuter if you just sat quietly and looked pretty."

"What the pretty lady wants, the pretty lady gets!" He flew over, nuzzling himself at her feet without another word.

* * *

**A/N: Oh Puffin, you mood-killer you. (Butter got too awkward and threw in some Puffin for un-romanticness, yes.)**

**Writing this really reminded me why I don't write a lot of romance ._. /goes to awkward corner**

**I hope you enjoyed it anyway**


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